


The Principality and the Library ( His Achilles Heel)

by arwenevenstar202



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Inspired by Alexandria 48 BC, Inspired by Fanart, Library of Alexandria, M/M, My First Good Omens Fic, Principality Aziraphale (Good Omens), Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Whumptober 2020, Wings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27234346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arwenevenstar202/pseuds/arwenevenstar202
Summary: A Prince of Hell arises to deliver the final blow to the greatest home of knowledge in the known world: The Great Library of Alexandria. Aziraphale refuses to let it all burn without a fight.  Aziraphale takes a beating, and Crowley is there to pick up the pieces. Our demon comes to a startling revelation about his feelings...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley/Aziraphale
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously, I didn't create Good Omens. :) I also lifted the idea of the Ineffable Idiots at Alexandria from various sources, because it is an excellent premise, and I had something to add.

Prologue:

Aziraphale sat at the back of the classroom, on one of the uppermost stone steps, as was customary for newcomers into Euclid’s geometry course. He was transfixed by the meticulously copied scroll in front of him, which contained the axioms for plane geometry – as well as diagrams of various shapes and angles. 

_Beautiful. So elegantly and succinctly expressed._ Aziraphale smiled.

Euclid was certainly not the first to have discovered geometry, but he was carrying this torch forward to the rest of humanity, stating the principles, connecting the ground-rules for a whole system of mathematics.

Angels, of course, already had a grasp of geometry. The knowledge had been dropped into this particular angel’s soul upon his Creation, and there had never been a reason to question it. Aziraphale understood these principles in the same way that he understood God--that is to say, with unquestioning faith, not through trial and error, the way these humans approached it.

It had been absolutely fascinating to watch humankind begin the process of examining the universe. Their curiosity was boundless; they catalogued things, measured them, and created their own explanations and predictions. They acquired knowledge at a rapid pace, and seemed to hunger for it.

 _I have a certain serpent to thank for that._ He mused.

Euclid’s voice snapped him abruptly back to reality.

He began explaining how measurements of area and volume could be found, using multiplication of side lengths. An example was given, and students around the classroom took notes. Euclid assigned each student the task of creating their own hypothetical shape with hypothetical measurements, and finding the area. The angel, having drawn a rectangle and worked the problem forward to its inevitable conclusion, wiggled happily. He also completely failed to suppress the eager angelic glow that was leaking out into the classroom, from his general vicinity.

A few students turned to stare at him, and he used a quick miracle to make them forgetful. It was the best he could do. The glowing would continue, as it had ever since he had discovered the 2nd paradise on Earth:

The Library of Alexandria.

*** Several Months Later ***

Crowley had been sleeping for the better part of the day, but found himself blinking suddenly awake. Yellow snake eyes bore suspiciously into the darkness, mistrusting the shadows. He tasted the air, with a quick flick of forked tongue. There was a faint whiff of smoke lingering in his room, but no heavenly/hellish intruders lurking in the corners.

He sat up, long limbs stretched awkwardly, kicking the blanket away to one side. Warm air made his corporation’s skin sticky, and it annoyed him. It reminded him of the humid, festering dungeons of Hell.

Crowley lingered for a moment, staring down at his feet.

_Didn’t even take the sandals off last night… must’ve been spectacularly drunk ._

No wonder he had been lost to sweet oblivion. Just thinking about how deeply he had been sleeping started to piss him off. He groaned:   
  
“Fucking Heaven…. Why am I awake?”

He stood, stumbling to the nearest window, opening it to the night air. He had lodged at an inn near Alexandria’s harbor, with a decent view of the Great Lighthouse in the distance. Crowley’s orders were to stay near the Royal Quarter and “stand by”…whatever the Heaven that meant. Non-specific orders from Beezlebub made Crowley uncomfortable. It usually meant that she was pleased with herself, and nothing that gratified Beezlebub was likely to please Crowley.

He tried to calm himself.

There was probably a perfectly logical explanation to his awakening, and nothing whatsoever to do with Hell.

It was a pleasant evening, if an overcast one. The blazing Egyptian sun had set an hour or so ago, and the breeze was just picking up. The Lighthouse was lit, and there was a strange glow in the city, to the north—brighter than the city had any right to be at this time of night.

Out of nowhere, he wondered whether Aziraphale was okay.

Crowley’s heart skipped a beat, and he noticed something gently pulling on him.

 _What the …?_

He focused on the feeling, recognizing it immediately as something celestial…an energy from another plane of existence. It was _tugging_ at him, and he didn’t quite know how to explain it… but it was certainly Aziraphale.

 _This is…strange._ He thought. _I’ve never been able to sense him before._

He turned back to the strange glow in the city, dread creeping up his spine. With a snap of his fingers, Crowley followed the feeling right into the heart of the Royal Quarter.

He took a deep unnecessary breath, and promptly wished he hadn’t. Smoke filled the air, and he could hear the wailing and screaming of city-folk, who were scrambling away from the city’s interior. Flames were licking a building a few blocks away; Crowley could see it over the tops of palacial walls and roofs.

He hustled toward the sight, tugged by the invisible feeling. It was pulling more urgently now. Crowley was somehow certain he would find Aziraphale at the source of the trouble.

Crowley hurried through a crowd of people for a few blocks, before deciding that it was like swimming upstream. He ducked down an alleyway, thanking SOMEONE that he didn’t actually NEED to breathe, and finally came out on the other side, in full view of the largest and most splendid building in town:

The Library. 

It was on fire.

Half of the main building had already collapsed, and an inferno was raging through the rest. A few Alexandrians—probably scholars—were wringing their hands and turning away, buckets empty. They had tried to put out the flames, in vain. 

Aziraphale had spent countless hours in that Great Library, he knew, cataloging and studying, and above all, reading.

Crowley winced at the sight,

_Ngk. Fuck._

The architecture, which was famed throughout the world, was crumbling to ash. It hurt to watch.

Crowley shook his head disdainfully, and continued to follow the painful tugging in his chest. He found Aziraphale standing on the front steps of the library, mere feet from the flames.

Crowley approached from behind.

“Angel,” he greeted, softly. 

Aziraphale made no move to reply, shoulders slumped forward, silhouetted against the flames. He wouldn’t even look at Crowley.

Crowley’s gut began to ache, unexpectedly, as though he’d been punched. He surged forward, grabbed Aziraphale by the shoulder, and spun him around.

Aziraphale’s face was contorted in agony. Quiet sobbing sounds formed and died on his pink lips.

_Angels don’t cry… do they?._

He had to break Aziraphale out of….whatever this was.

“Angel…?” he said, gently, again.

No response. He was in some kind of shock.

“Angel, you’ve got to move. We can miracle the rest of the scrolls, but there’s nothing left to be done in this part of the building.” 

“Can’t… leave…..can’t….miracle it away,” Aziraphale gasped between sobs. “Heaven’s orders. I must…*sob* be here to…. bear witness.”

Crowley growled. “God wanted you to see this?”

“Gabriel.”

“FUCK Gabriel. Come with me.” He grabbed Aziraphale by the hand, for the first time ever. To the touch-starved demon, it felt like lightning and a warm embrace all at once.

Just his luck—he was too distracted by the angel’s sorrow to enjoy it.

Aziraphale followed Crowley as he led him down the steps and back toward the plaza in front of the inferno. Crowley snapped his fingers, in an attempt to quell the flames. Nothing happened. He tried two more times, and hissed.

“It’s not working. Hell’s higher-ups are in on this. I don’t know how, but I’m being blocked here.”

“Crowley… all of humanity’s wisdom…their knowledge… their memories….their books” The angel gasped between phrases, as though each was more painful than the last. “I only managed to save a copy of the Iliad….. that’s ALL.”

“They’ll rebuild, angel. You know they will… Humans figure it out… obviously. There are so, so many other libraries.”

“Not like this. This was supposed to be THE collection of all knowledge on Earth. This will set them back for centuries; you KNOW it will.”

“So did the Ark, and that was actual human lives. These are just scraps of papyrus, angel.”

It was an ugly shot, but Crowley said it nonchalantly anyway, hoping for the standard indignant angelic reaction to steer this conversation back to familiar ground.

Aziraphale yanked his hand free, and Crowley felt the loss profoundly. The angel turned back toward the flames, something unfamiliar burning in his eyes.

“Do not lecture me, Crowley!” Aziraphale yelped. “This is not about scrolls. This is about humanity and their understanding of God, of nature, philosophy… THEMSELVES. They are so fragile. These scrolls were meant to PRESERVE them for their children, and their children, and theirs. This knowledge is the inheritance of the humans. You should understand better than anyone….” He slowly met Crowley’s eyes.

“…All the beauty and the wisdom God gave them, and here it is, turned to ash.”

Crowley felt as though a raw emotional blister had just burst, somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. It stung, and he blinked at Aziraphale in shock. 

“Galen’s scrolls about the brain, Hypatia’s tireless study of the stars… the largest collection of knowledge in the WORLD, Crowley. Everything they have learned… gone. For what? For WHAT? Asking too many questions? Were they too observant or too clever? Is that it? Did they-- Did they get too close to an answer?”

There were some things he and Aziraphale had never discussed. Falling was one of them. Crowley did NOT like where this was going. The look in Aziraphale’s eyes was very familiar—like someone about to leap off of a precipice.

“Angel, lisssten,” Crowley began, the hiss becoming more pronounced as he grew more anxious. “I know you’re upset…”

“Upset,” Aziraphale repeated dumbly. 

“….but whatever you do, you absolutely CANNOT talk like that. Do you understand me? Not right now. You need to step back, and take a breath. Listen, why don’t we grab a bite to eat and miracle ourselves out of here. We can go anywhere you….”

Aziraphale froze, a strange disconnected stare on his face, like he was listening for something.

It was only seconds before Crowley heard it; a rumbling deep beneath their feet, something scratching through the earth, about a hundred feet in front of them.

A gigantic fist lurched up from below, scattering dirt clods and mud. It was a less-than-ceremonious- entrance, but the demon Asmodeus had never been one for class. He was being of fire and chaos, and he looked the part. His corporation was built like a boulder, nearly as wide as it was tall. Something about him seemed stretched, bursting at the seams. 

Aziraphale could not tear his eyes away from the demon, who was now approaching the eastern wing of the library- the only building remaining. 

“Angel, that’s a Prince of Hell. We need to go. NOW. “ Crowley yanked Aziraphale’s arm, but found him unmoving, as though he were made of stone.

Aziraphale’s eyes shimmered with tears, as he made a complicated gesture with one hand.

Crowley found himself abruptly miracled across the square, his suddenly serpentine body rendered utterly immobile, wrapped around the limb of a tree.

******************************************************************

“Sorry, dear boy,” Aziraphale whispered.

His fingers still tingled, from where Crowley had grabbed his hand earlier. The hands were also shaking miserably, uncontrollably.

Aziraphale gritted his teeth, and snapped downward once again. He materialized with his back to the library’s towering wooden doors, directly in front of the behemoth Asmodeus. He was keenly aware that this was a direct violation of Gabriel’s order “not to intervene when the Christians burned the library”, however… Gabriel had never mentioned the possibility of Hell aiding and abetting. Aziraphale was still bound to thwart the enemy, in general terms. At least that’s what he would put in his report, if he survived this.

Asmodeus roared with laughter, blinking his red-hot coals of eyes.

“What’s this? The opposition is finally ready to make a move, eh? Un-fucking-believable.”

He sized up Aziraphale and seemed thoroughly unimpressed. 

“Chubby little thing… you a Cherub? Upstairs must be desperate, sending you lot. I wish I’d known in advance… I would have brought the hellfire. Could have had a barbecue. You’d be tasty as fuck with an apple in your mouth. ”

He advanced slowly, gripping a massive spiked warhammer.

********************************************************************

Crowley hissed frantically, straining in his snake form against whatever “invisible” blessed bonds Aziraphale had trapped him in. It was a bizarre feeling , to be constrained by something holy, and yet not burned. It should have made his demonic scales sizzle and melt, but instead it held him gently, even as he struggled. It was soft and strong somehow, and that fact alone wounded him in a place he could not name, a place where his Grace used to live. Aziraphale would not even trap him in something that he could hurt himself struggling against.

He tried demonic miracle after demonic miracle, desperate to break out at first, and then tried other miracles aimed in the angel’s vicinity, to help, in any small way. It was no use.

He stared helplessly, with wide golden eyes, as Asmodeus thundered toward the angel, and the Eastern wing of the library.

Got something to say? Speak, little cherub. Last words, and all.”

Aziraphale began to glow, with a piercing blue light.

“I AM NOT A CHERUB,” he said. I AM THE PRINCIPALITY AZIRAPHALE. I GUARD THE EASTERN GATE.” His voice rang out, as sonorous and clear as a church bell. It was the voice of Heaven, and not Aziraphale’s normal tone.

At his words, a shield of light fell straight down from the sky to land silently behind him. It was a blindingly bright wall, a hundred feet tall. It began at the doors, and grew to enfold the entire building. 

Crowley sucked in a breath as glowing white wings unfurled from Aziraphale’s back, and a thousand eyes and one opened in the ethereal plane. Each was white-blue, blazing with heaven’s light, and they left Crowley feeling painfully exposed. He shoved the fear of Heaven to the back of his mind and let it burn there. He was utterly compelled by this new vision, the angel Aziraphale unhinged.

Asmodeus grinned at Aziraphale’s true form, and cracked his knuckles. Darkness fell around him. Smoke curled at his feet, billowed from his back where wings had once been. Asmodeus didn’t bother to summon the wings. He wouldn’t need them. As a Prince of Hell, he was orders of magnitude more powerful than Aziraphale.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was splitting his own power between protecting the library, and rendering Crowley immobile.

Fear stabbed Crowley in the gut, a cold understanding dawning on him.

Aziraphale was using every last ounce of his Heavenly Gift, and it would not be nearly enough. 

“Shit shit shit…Why are you playing the hero? GET OUT OF THERE NOW!!!!”

******************************************************************

Asmodeus wasted no time at all, eyeballing the angel with a hellish smirk, and swiping at him with the warhammer. Aziraphale instinctually darted forward, evading the blow, and slipping between the gap in the monster’s legs. 

_I CAN MAINTAIN THE WALL, WITHOUT HAVING MY BACK TO IT_ , a righteous inner-voice told him.   
  


Almost as soon as the thought entered his mind, Asmodeus’s warhammer made contact with the barrier, and the force of the blow actually shook the demon’s arm. A hairline crack materialized right at the center of the strike, but resealed within seconds.

Asmodeus stood, unbelieving for a moment. It was enough time for Aziraphale to materialize a sword.

_I WILL NOT BE AFRAID._

His training in Heaven’s army had not prepared him to battle a Prince of Hell, (particularly without his flaming sword), but at least it had provided him with some fluidity of movement.

He managed to evade 2 blows by ducking or rolling out of the way, and took a swipe as close to the demon’s weapon-hand as he could get. That glanced off of a gauntlet.

Unfortunately, he failed to anticipate the brute’s next move, and took the warhammer right between the ribs. Aziraphale flew through the air about 10 feet, but landed softly, thanks in no small part to the automatic response of his wings, which flapped helpfully, to lift him. His ribs were crushed on one side. He poured a bit of energy into them, willing them to numbness, at least for the time being, and flew higher, out of reach of the behemoth. When Asmodeus finally deigned to materialize his wings, he found himself unable to leave the ground. They were too small to support him. He hadn’t done his research regarding Earth physics, apparently--just beefed up his body, and assumed the rest would compensate.

The demon roared, turning his eyes from the sky, and banging on the barrier once more with furious, Hellish blows.

The wall began to splinter, and this time it wasn’t healing fast enough. The warhammer turned red-hot, like a forge, as it struck the holy barrier.

Aziraphale willed it to remain, and it did. The angel actually smiled briefly, proud of his handiwork. Cracks formed in the surface of the shield, but it did not break.

Principalities were, after all, guardians. He was naturally more skilled at defense than offense.

Now all he had to do was fly out of Asmodeus’s reach continuously, avoid any projectiles thrown his way, maintain the barrier around the last library building AND keep Crowley out of the way. 

Surely Asmodeus would be too frustrated to carry on. Surely the demon would find something more worth its while than one tiny section of library.

***********************************************

Hours passed, and Aziraphale became progressively weaker. He had started counting blows against the barrier, and had marked 2,700 strikes in 4 hours, and 30 deflected projectiles.

By hour 5, he was completely exhausted.

And by hour 6, his wings could no longer hold him up. Aziraphale felt as though his chest was on fire, a sharp pain that increased with every breath. (Breathing was another habit he needed to kick, once this was all over.) He grimaced and allowed himself one wail of pain, as he dropped the last 10 feet to the ground.

Asmodeus watched the angel touch down, and laughed cruelly, heaving a final blow upon the shield wall.

And it finally shattered. A million ethereal shards rained down like crystal raindrops.

Aziraphale (and Crowley) looked on in horror as Asmodeus gleefully tossed a now-flaming hammer right into the center of the nearest shelf of scrolls. The papyrus lit immediately.

In the ethereal plane, a thousand eyes and one began to water.

 _Immobilized. Completely useless_. Crowley mused sardonically _. And to think, in another life, I outranked him._

Crowley hissed and struggled, feeling Aziraphale’s energy waning.

The protective holy barrier at the library had fallen, but the protection on the snake still held.

“Why?” Crowley asked. “Why is he wasting TIME holding me back? I could help. I could….”

He knew why. Oh, God, he knew.

\--A wing, feather-light, unconsciously protecting him from the first rain in Eden.

\--Scared eyes, pleading with him to leave Jerusalem, before Gabriel arrived.

\--A shared, sleepless night in Golgotha, drinking the grief away together, after the crucifixion.

\--Seeking him out in Rome. Tempting him to oysters. Making him smile against his will.

Crowley desperately tried to think of something else, to slam the doors shut on this train of thought, and to dam up every conceivable emotional reaction from his corporation.

He could not afford to feel all this right now.

************************************************************************ 

Aziraphale had run out of options. He snapped several times in rapid succession, trying everything he knew: to miracle the fire directly, to move the scrolls, to reinforce any piece of the building that could be reinforced, but found it all just as impossible as he had before Crowley arrival, several hours earlier.

He was grasping at straws now. The human sword in his grip was not going to hurt a demon, unless he could exploit a weakness…

 _I MUST THINK. I MUST SEE._ Blue eyes in the ethereal plane narrowed and focused, each one taking in an excruciating amount of detail in a second or two, and rendering judgment. (Crowley shuddered across the square.) 

_ASMODEUS IS POWERFUL, YET LUMBERING, AWKWARD.  
HE IS NOT USED TO BEING TRAPPED IN A PHYSICAL FORM OR CORPORATION.   
HIS ESSENCE STRAINS AGAINST HIS BODY. HE IS TOO BIG TO FLY.   
HE DOES NOT UNDERSTAND THE PHYSICAL LIMITATIONS OF HIS BODY.   
HE IS AN OVERCONFIDENT LUMMOX, WHO PROBABLY MADE THIS CORPORATION HIMSELF.   
HE DIDN’T EVEN BOTHER TO MIRACLE HIMSELF ARMOR, BECAUSE HE DID NOT THINK HE WOULD NEED IT. HE SIMPLY COVERED HIS VITAL ORGANS IN BULK. _

_WHAT PART OF HIS BODY DID HE NEGLECT TO REINFORCE?_

One eye landed squarely on the monster’s heel.

Aziraphale smiled, suddenly remembering a very human story about Achilles. “Ineffable” he whispered, suddenly very much himself again.

Aziraphale flung himself forward, as Asmodeus’s back was still turned, and plunged the sword into the beast’s left heel, slicing to the right.

The demon howled in pain, and Aziraphale caught a whiff of sulfur. Something vile was leaking from the wound, and Asmodeus was going down quickly, half-deflating, half melting-away, as the demonic essence poured out of him. He could not stop the “bleeding.” He didn’t know how. He was slowly sinking back to Hell. He spat furiously, bellowing a litany of curses at the angel. 

But he had one last parting shot for the Heavenly being, with a wave of his hand.

The firebrand of a hammer materialized in midair, slamming into the angel’s left shoulder, and then into his back, into his beautiful wings, as he lay sprawled on the ground, face down. The hammer plunged down again and again, savagely beating Aziraphale into the dirt. 

From across the square, an alien sound scorched the air. It was the sound of a snake screaming viscerally, a sound no snake had ever made before, or since.

When the molten remains of Asmodeus had finally sunk beneath the ground, the hammer fell next to Aziraphale’s bleeding form, and disappeared.  
  


**************

Crowley felt the last remnants of Aziraphale’s protective spell vanish, and he slithered down from the tree, not even bothering to change forms. He bent every ounce of serpentine muscle to the task, and hurtled forward toward the angel.

He was in bad shape, oozing a golden ichor from his wings, his side, and one leg. Battered and swollen, he wasn’t breathing.

Crowley had hardly even begun to catalog the damage when he heard the distant sound of trumpets ringing.

_Shit, shit, shit._

Eyes wide, the demon bolted for cover. He hid behind a building just in time for the archangel Gabriel to arrive. He emerged, impeccably dressed, directly in front of Aziraphale. Clear violet eyes assessed his surroundings before he even spared a glance for the angel. When his eyes finally graced Aziraphale’s limp form, eyeroll. 

A single snap revived Aziraphale, and stopped the bleeding. Aziraphale whined, rolling onto his side, then his knees. He seemed unable to stand, and Gabriel left him there, kneeling. 

“Aziraphale. You look awful.” Gabriel said. He paused noticeably afterward, waiting for the angel to laugh. The laugh never came, as Aziraphale had a hard time even focusing his eyes. 

“Anyway…” Gabriel continued. “Good going, champ! Discorporating a Prince of Hell—quite a feat, quite a feat. I’m sure She will be duly impressed. Of course, there is that small matter of me ORDERING YOU TO STAND DOWN.”

Aziraphale clenched his jaw involuntarily.

“The Eastern building has been saved…” Aziraphale began.

“Oh yes, I can see that.” Gabriel said. “No matter. I’m here to clean up.” 

He snapped his fingers, and the entire Eastern wing of library, down to the last scroll, disintegrated.

Small scraps of papyrus rained from the sky like confetti that had-not-been-invented yet. Aziraphale was so stunned, he almost forgot to wipe the look of utter despair off of his face.

Aziraphale, you were bored here on this rock, and spoiling for a fight,” Gabriel continued, confetti landing in his hair, on his neatly-pressed suit, “and I can hardly blame you for discorporating that vile demon while you had the opportunity, but you had best be warned. I have revoked your divine healing privileges, for your disobedience of my orders, and for risking interference with the Great Plan.”

Despite the residual heat, and the adrenaline, Aziraphale’s blood ran cold. His lip curled up, a farce of a smile.

“Great Plan.” He whispered.

“That’s right, champ. There was too much blasphemy in this place. It practically reeks of evil.”

Gabriel scrunched his nose, and turned on his heel. With a “pop” he was gone, without so much as another glance in Aziraphale’s direction.

A gasp slipped from the angel’s lips, as he half wobbled, half crawled toward the exact place where the Eastern door had stood. “Cold,” he muttered to no one in particular. “I’m cold.” He crumpled to the ground in defeat.

****************************************************************

Crowley heard the entire exchange, seething in his contempt for Heaven, for Gabriel, and for Her.

_Of FUCKING course._

Hell was no picnic. But the thing with Hell is that you expected them to be awful. You expected the admonishment, the insults, the physical abuse. They were damned demons, for Satan’s sake. It’s in the job description. You knew the pain was coming, eventually, like a jump scare in a scary movie (that hadn’t been invented yet). 

Most of the time, the devils giggled and carried on, and gave the game away before they could lay a finger on you.

Heaven was so much worse. They waited, silently, watching your every move, waiting in the clouds to pounce.

_They’ll pull the rug out from under you, with no warning whatsoever. They want to watch you Fall._

No wonder Aziraphale was so hung up. He had spent at least a millennia looking back over his shoulder, as though expecting someone to appear right behind him. Because he was.

Crowley’s yellow eyes burned, and he felt sick with understanding.

_He’s better…purer….kinder than all of them combined, and they hate him for it._

When Gabriel finally vanished from sight, Crowley morphed back into human form. He did not hesitate. He couldn’t care less if Heaven or Hell were still watching – he rushed to the angel’s side as fast as lanky legs could carry him.

Aziraphale was laying face-first in the ash, and that would not do. Crowley reached gently beneath him, to help roll him over.

Tears and blood marred the angelic face. His body was shivering uncontrollably, and he let out a scared little cry. Crowley’s eyes involuntarily watered at the sound. 

“It’sss me, angel. It’sss okay. I’m getting you the Heaven out of here.”   
  
“Crow…ley. I’m…. cold.”

Without further ado, Crowley put an arm under the angel knees, and one beneath his wings, and swept him up. They needed to get somewhere out of sight, somewhere where Heaven and Hell would lose track of them both, and quickly. He snapped his fingers. 

Within the blink of an eye, he took them halfway across the world, into a cave by the warm sea, in a place that would one day become New Zealand.

 _No one will find us here_ , he reasoned. _Too pagan for the angels and too sparsely inhabited for the demons._

He laid Aziraphale gently on a bed, which also appeared out of nowhere, and assessed the patient head-to-toe, as the angel moved in-and-out of consciousness.

Gabriel had stopped his bleeding, but had left Aziraphale otherwise incapacitated. He wasn’t healing automatically—and that meant that he had been stripped of some power, at least temporarily.

Crowley could fix the angel’s body partially with demonic miracles, but it would take some time for him to fully recover. Too much demonic energy could kill him.

He began immediately, seeking out the worst of the wounds and applying a gentle hand to them, beginning the process of knitting bones back together, numbing the worst of it. As he worked, Crowley growled and hissed, remembering the smug, self-satisfied look on the archangel’s face as he obliterated the library. It was burned on his brain.

Eventually, Crowley realized he would have to turn Aziraphale onto his stomach, so he could start healing the wings. He slid arms behind Aziraphale once again, but this time, blue eyes shot open.

Aziraphale blinked and squirmed. “Crowley… what? What are you…”

Crowley froze, with a handful of bleeding angel in his arms, blushing furiously.

“I have to turn you over, Aziraphale. I have to get to your wingsss.” 

The damn hiss gave him away. Nervous tic.

Aziraphale’s face contorted in fear, and he lost even more color, if that was possible.

“How bad is it?” he asked, with the smallest voice possible.

Crowley laid him down on his stomach, and hesitated. He didn’t have the heart to lie, even though he wanted to.

The wings were utterly smashed.

“They’re uh….. well…” he gulped.

Aziraphale’s body went rigid at his words, or lack thereof. Tears trailed down his face, and he was wracked with a fresh fit of sobs.

Crowley was shit at this whole “comforting” thing, and he knew it. All he could do was curse, and mutter, as he tended the angel’s smashed wings, as gently as possible. “Fuck, ssorry Aziraphale. I’m sorry. That DICK. That ABSOLUTE BASTARD. Cheap fucking shot, wingsss. I guess that’s all my lot has in the arsenal. Fucking barbariansss. No brains.”

He straightened each wing, and removed a few that were hanging on by a thread. At one point, he had to crawl on the bed for a better angle. Slim fingertips brushed a broken wing joint by mistake, and Aziraphale howled. Crowley tried to numb the pain for him, but found it impossible. It was a kind of pain that existed on the ethereal plane, somewhere in another dimension.

It hurt Crowley to his very soul, but he continued, struggling to hold Aziraphale still. The excess demonic miracles should have made Crowley tired, and yet he remained energetic, even freakishly so. He moved from one task to another—miracling what he could, cleaning the rest with water. Every so often, Aziraphale would cry out, and Crowley would grab his hand.

The pattern continued for hours, until it completely wore down Crowley’s resolve.

That is how the demon found himself propped up on the bed, with a heap of angel in his lap, arms and dark wings wrapped around them both protectively. Aziraphale’s crying eased up, eventually, shifting into heavy breaths and little gasps, and then, into silence.

Crowley watched him sleep for quite some time, going over his soft face over and over again, staring at him like he’d never seen him before. Pale skin, pink lips, white-blond wisps of hair, curves for days. Sweetness and light, with a dash of bastard. Loved humanity so. Black and blue from a run-in with a demon. 

Here was something priceless. Something he had not even considered losing until today. 

_Soft_ , he thought. _I’ve gone soft_.

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, willing the possibility away.

_Demons don’t do…. this. It has to stop. Now._

And even as he thought it, a sinking feeling filled him. He knew he could not. He could not kill this …thing. It held him in place, softly, but it was absolutely unyielding.

It had been growing stronger since the beginning. The feeling was like an ivy, reaching, reaching toward the angel. Reaching for the sun.

His’s face scrunched up in frustration.

_I FELL, for Fuck’s sake. And he will too, if anyone finds out about this._

Crowley’s fingertips absentmindedly traced along the edge of an undamaged white primary feather. It was perfect, unblemished, and beautiful.

He leaned his head back against the cave wall, staring upward to its rocky ceiling, wishing in vain that he had never fallen.

_It would have been possible, before that. I could have loved you, angel._

He sighed, pressing a quick kiss to the top of the angel’s head.


	2. Chapter 2

“Sorry, dear boy,” Aziraphale whispered.

His fingers still tingled, from where Crowley had grabbed his hand earlier. The hands were also shaking miserably, uncontrollably.

Aziraphale gritted his teeth, and snapped downward once again. He materialized with his back to the library’s towering wooden doors, directly in front of the behemoth Asmodeus. He was keenly aware that this was a direct violation of Gabriel’s order “not to intervene when the Christians burned the library”, however… Gabriel had never mentioned the possibility of Hell aiding and abetting. Aziraphale was still bound to thwart the enemy, in general terms. At least that’s what he would put in his report, if he survived this.

Asmodeus roared with laughter, blinking his red-hot coals of eyes.

“What’s this? The opposition is finally ready to make a move, eh? Un-fucking-believable.”

He sized up Aziraphale and seemed thoroughly unimpressed. 

“Chubby little thing… you a Cherub? Upstairs must be desperate, sending you lot. I wish I’d known in advance… I would have brought the hellfire. Could have had a barbecue. You’d be tasty as fuck with an apple in your mouth. ”

He advanced slowly, gripping a massive spiked warhammer.

********************************************************************

Crowley hissed frantically, straining in his snake form against whatever “invisible” blessed bonds Aziraphale had trapped him in. It was a bizarre feeling , to be constrained by something holy, and yet not burned. It should have made his demonic scales sizzle and melt, but instead it held him gently, even as he struggled. It was soft and strong somehow, and that fact alone wounded him in a place he could not name, a place where his Grace used to live. Aziraphale would not even trap him in something that he could hurt himself struggling against.

He tried demonic miracle after demonic miracle, desperate to break out at first, and then tried other miracles aimed in the angel’s vicinity, to help, in any small way. It was no use.

He stared helplessly, with wide golden eyes, as Asmodeus thundered toward the angel, and the Eastern wing of the library.

Got something to say? Speak, little cherub. Last words, and all.”

Aziraphale began to glow, with a piercing blue light.

“I AM NOT A CHERUB,” he said. I AM THE PRINCIPALITY AZIRAPHALE. I GUARD THE EASTERN GATE.” His voice rang out, as sonorous and clear as a church bell. It was the voice of Heaven, and not Aziraphale’s normal tone.

At his words, a shield of light fell straight down from the sky to land silently behind him. It was a blindingly bright wall, a hundred feet tall. It began at the doors, and grew to enfold the entire building. 

Crowley sucked in a breath as glowing white wings unfurled from Aziraphale’s back, and a thousand eyes and one opened in the ethereal plane. Each was white-blue, blazing with heaven’s light, and they left Crowley feeling painfully exposed. He shoved the fear of Heaven to the back of his mind and let it burn there. He was utterly compelled by this new vision, the angel Aziraphale unhinged.

Asmodeus grinned at Aziraphale’s true form, and cracked his knuckles. Darkness fell around him. Smoke curled at his feet, billowed from his back where wings had once been. Asmodeus didn’t bother to summon the wings. He wouldn’t need them. As a Prince of Hell, he was orders of magnitude more powerful than Aziraphale.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was splitting his own power between protecting the library, and rendering Crowley immobile.

Fear stabbed Crowley in the gut, a cold understanding dawning on him.

Aziraphale was using every last ounce of his Heavenly Gift, and it would not be nearly enough. 

“Shit shit shit…Why are you playing the hero? GET OUT OF THERE NOW!!!!”

*********************************************************************

Asmodeus wasted no time at all, eyeballing the angel with a hellish smirk, and swiping at him with the warhammer. Aziraphale instinctually darted forward, evading the blow, and slipping between the gap in the monster’s legs. 

_I CAN MAINTAIN THE WALL, WITHOUT HAVING MY BACK TO IT_ , a righteous inner-voice told him.   
  


Almost as soon as the thought entered his mind, Asmodeus’s warhammer made contact with the barrier, and the force of the blow actually shook the demon’s arm. A hairline crack materialized right at the center of the strike, but resealed within seconds.

Asmodeus stood, unbelieving for a moment. It was enough time for Aziraphale to materialize a sword.

_I WILL NOT BE AFRAID._

His training in Heaven’s army had not prepared him to battle a Prince of Hell, (particularly without his flaming sword), but at least it had provided him with some fluidity of movement.

He managed to evade 2 blows by ducking or rolling out of the way, and took a swipe as close to the demon’s weapon-hand as he could get. That glanced off of a gauntlet.

Unfortunately, he failed to anticipate the brute’s next move, and took the warhammer right between the ribs. Aziraphale flew through the air about 10 feet, but landed softly, thanks in no small part to the automatic response of his wings, which flapped helpfully, to lift him. His ribs were crushed on one side. He poured a bit of energy into them, willing them to numbness, at least for the time being, and flew higher, out of reach of the behemoth. When Asmodeus finally deigned to materialize his wings, he found himself unable to leave the ground. They were too small to support him. He hadn’t done his research regarding Earth physics, apparently--just beefed up his body, and assumed the rest would compensate.

The demon roared, turning his eyes from the sky, and banging on the barrier once more with furious, Hellish blows.

The wall began to splinter, and this time it wasn’t healing fast enough. The warhammer turned red-hot, like a forge, as it struck the holy barrier.

Aziraphale willed it to remain, and it did. The angel actually smiled briefly, proud of his handiwork. Cracks formed in the surface of the shield, but it did not break.

Principalities were, after all, guardians. He was naturally more skilled at defense than offense.

Now all he had to do was fly out of Asmodeus’s reach continuously, avoid any projectiles thrown his way, maintain the barrier around the last library building AND keep Crowley out of the way. 

Surely Asmodeus would be too frustrated to carry on. Surely the demon would find something more worth its while than one tiny section of library.

**************************************

Hours passed, and Aziraphale became progressively weaker. He had started counting blows against the barrier, and had marked 2,700 strikes in 4 hours, and 30 deflected projectiles.

By hour 5, he was completely exhausted.

And by hour 6, his wings could no longer hold him up. Aziraphale felt as though his chest was on fire, a sharp pain that increased with every breath. (Breathing was another habit he needed to kick, once this was all over.) He grimaced and allowed himself one wail of pain, as he dropped the last 10 feet to the ground.

Asmodeus watched the angel touch down, and laughed cruelly, heaving a final blow upon the shield wall.

And it finally shattered. A million ethereal shards rained down like crystal raindrops.

Aziraphale (and Crowley) looked on in horror as Asmodeus gleefully tossed a now-flaming hammer right into the center of the nearest shelf of scrolls. The papyrus lit immediately.

In the ethereal plane, a thousand eyes and one began to water.

 _Immobilized. Completely useless_. Crowley mused sardonically _. And to think, in another life, I outranked him._

Crowley hissed and struggled, feeling Aziraphale’s energy waning.

The protective holy barrier at the library had fallen, but the protection on the snake still held.

“Why?” Crowley asked. “Why is he wasting TIME holding me back? I could help. I could….”

He knew why. Oh, God, he knew.

\--A wing, feather-light, unconsciously protecting him from the first rain in Eden.

\--Scared eyes, pleading with him to leave Jerusalem, before Gabriel arrived.

\--A shared, sleepless night in Golgotha, drinking the grief away together, after the crucifixion.

\--Seeking him out in Rome. Tempting him to oysters. Making him smile against his will.

Crowley desperately tried to think of something else, to slam the doors shut on this train of thought, and to dam up every conceivable emotional reaction from his corporation.

He could not afford to feel all this right now.

************************************************************************ 

Aziraphale had run out of options. He snapped several times in rapid succession, trying everything he knew: to miracle the fire directly, to move the scrolls, to reinforce any piece of the building that could be reinforced, but found it all just as impossible as he had before Crowley arrival, several hours earlier.

He was grasping at straws now. The human sword in his grip was not going to hurt a demon, unless he could exploit a weakness…

 _I MUST THINK. I MUST SEE._ Blue eyes in the ethereal plane narrowed and focused, each one taking in an excruciating amount of detail in a second or two, and rendering judgment. (Crowley shuddered across the square.) 

_ASMODEUS IS POWERFUL, YET LUMBERING, AWKWARD.  
HE IS NOT USED TO BEING TRAPPED IN A PHYSICAL FORM OR CORPORATION.   
HIS ESSENCE STRAINS AGAINST HIS BODY. HE IS TOO BIG TO FLY.   
HE DOES NOT UNDERSTAND THE PHYSICAL LIMITATIONS OF HIS BODY.   
HE IS AN OVERCONFIDENT LUMMOX, WHO PROBABLY MADE THIS CORPORATION HIMSELF.   
HE DIDN’T EVEN BOTHER TO MIRACLE HIMSELF ARMOR, BECAUSE HE DID NOT THINK HE WOULD NEED IT. HE SIMPLY COVERED HIS VITAL ORGANS IN BULK. _

_WHAT PART OF HIS BODY DID HE NEGLECT TO REINFORCE?_

One eye landed squarely on the monster’s heel.

Aziraphale smiled, suddenly remembering a very human story about Achilles. “Ineffable” he whispered, suddenly very much himself again.

Aziraphale flung himself forward, as Asmodeus’s back was still turned, and plunged the sword into the beast’s left heel, slicing to the right.

The demon howled in pain, and Aziraphale caught a whiff of sulfur. Something vile was leaking from the wound, and Asmodeus was going down quickly, half-deflating, half melting-away, as the demonic essence poured out of him. He could not stop the “bleeding.” He didn’t know how. He was slowly sinking back to Hell. He spat furiously, bellowing a litany of curses at the angel. 

But he had one last parting shot for the Heavenly being, with a wave of his hand.

The firebrand of a hammer materialized in midair, slamming into the angel’s left shoulder, and then into his back, into his beautiful wings, as he lay sprawled on the ground, face down. The hammer plunged down again and again, savagely beating Aziraphale into the dirt. 

From across the square, an alien sound scorched the air. It was the sound of a snake screaming viscerally, a sound no snake had ever made before, or since.

When the molten remains of Asmodeus had finally sunk beneath the ground, the hammer fell next to Aziraphale’s bleeding form, and disappeared.  
  



	3. Chapter 3

Crowley felt the last remnants of Aziraphale’s protective spell vanish, and he slithered down from the tree, not even bothering to change forms. He bent every ounce of serpentine muscle to the task, and hurtled forward toward the angel.

He was in bad shape, oozing a golden ichor from his wings, his side, and one leg. Battered and swollen, he wasn’t breathing.

Crowley had hardly even begun to catalog the damage when he heard the distant sound of trumpets ringing.

_Shit, shit, shit._

Eyes wide, the demon bolted for cover. He hid behind a building just in time for the archangel Gabriel to arrive. He emerged, impeccably dressed, directly in front of Aziraphale. Clear violet eyes assessed his surroundings before he even spared a glance for the angel. When his eyes finally graced Aziraphale’s limp form, eyeroll. 

A single snap revived Aziraphale, and stopped the bleeding. Aziraphale whined, rolling onto his side, then his knees. He seemed unable to stand, and Gabriel left him there, kneeling. 

“Aziraphale. You look awful.” Gabriel said. He paused noticeably afterward, waiting for the angel to laugh. The laugh never came, as Aziraphale had a hard time even focusing his eyes. 

“Anyway…” Gabriel continued. “Good going, champ! Discorporating a Prince of Hell—quite a feat, quite a feat. I’m sure She will be duly impressed. Of course, there is that small matter of me ORDERING YOU TO STAND DOWN.”

Aziraphale clenched his jaw involuntarily.

“The Eastern building has been saved…” Aziraphale began.

“Oh yes, I can see that.” Gabriel said. “No matter. I’m here to clean up.” 

He snapped his fingers, and the entire Eastern wing of library, down to the last scroll, disintegrated.

Small scraps of papyrus rained from the sky like confetti that had-not-been-invented yet. Aziraphale was so stunned, he almost forgot to wipe the look of utter despair off of his face.

Aziraphale, you were bored here on this rock, and spoiling for a fight,” Gabriel continued, confetti landing in his hair, on his neatly-pressed suit, “and I can hardly blame you for discorporating that vile demon while you had the opportunity, but you had best be warned. I have revoked your divine healing privileges, for your disobedience of my orders, and for risking interference with the Great Plan.”

Despite the residual heat, and the adrenaline, Aziraphale’s blood ran cold. His lip curled up, a farce of a smile.

“Great Plan.” He whispered.

“That’s right, champ. There was too much blasphemy in this place. It practically reeks of evil.”

Gabriel scrunched his nose, and turned on his heel. With a “pop” he was gone, without so much as another glance in Aziraphale’s direction.

A gasp slipped from the angel’s lips, as he half wobbled, half crawled toward the exact place where the Eastern door had stood. “Cold,” he muttered to no one in particular. “I’m cold.” He crumpled to the ground in defeat.

Crowley heard the entire exchange, seething in his contempt for Heaven, for Gabriel, and for Her.

_Of FUCKING course._

Hell was no picnic. But the thing with Hell is that you expected them to be awful. You expected the admonishment, the insults, the physical abuse. They were damned demons, for Satan’s sake. It’s in the job description. You knew the pain was coming, eventually, like a jump scare in a scary movie (that hadn’t been invented yet). 

Most of the time, the devils giggled and carried on, and gave the game away before they could lay a finger on you.

Heaven was so much worse. They waited, silently, watching your every move, waiting in the clouds to pounce.

_They’ll pull the rug out from under you, with no warning whatsoever. They want to watch you Fall._

No wonder Aziraphale was so hung up. He had spent at least a millennia looking back over his shoulder, as though expecting someone to appear right behind him. Because he was.

Crowley’s yellow eyes burned, and he felt sick with understanding.

_He’s better…purer….kinder than all of them combined, and they hate him for it._

When Gabriel finally vanished from sight, Crowley morphed back into human form. He did not hesitate. He couldn’t care less if Heaven or Hell were still watching – he rushed to the angel’s side as fast as lanky legs could carry him.

Aziraphale was laying face-first in the ash, and that would not do. Crowley reached gently beneath him, to help roll him over.

Tears and blood marred the angelic face. His body was shivering uncontrollably, and he let out a scared little cry. Crowley’s eyes involuntarily watered at the sound. 

“It’sss me, angel. It’sss okay. I’m getting you the Heaven out of here.”  
  
“Crow…ley. I’m…. cold.”

Without further ado, Crowley put an arm under the angel knees, and one beneath his wings, and swept him up. They needed to get somewhere out of sight, somewhere where Heaven and Hell would lose track of them both, and quickly. He snapped his fingers. 

Within the blink of an eye, he took them halfway across the world, into a cave by the warm sea, in a place that would one day become New Zealand.

 _No one will find us here_ , he reasoned. _Too pagan for the angels and too sparsely inhabited for the demons._

He laid Aziraphale gently on a bed, which also appeared out of nowhere, and assessed the patient head-to-toe, as the angel moved in-and-out of consciousness.

Gabriel had stopped his bleeding, but had left Aziraphale otherwise incapacitated. He wasn’t healing automatically—and that meant that he had been stripped of some power, at least temporarily.

Crowley could fix the angel’s body partially with demonic miracles, but it would take some time for him to fully recover. Too much demonic energy could kill him.

He began immediately, seeking out the worst of the wounds and applying a gentle hand to them, beginning the process of knitting bones back together, numbing the worst of it. As he worked, Crowley growled and hissed, remembering the smug, self-satisfied look on the archangel’s face as he obliterated the library. It was burned on his brain.

Eventually, Crowley realized he would have to turn Aziraphale onto his stomach, so he could start healing the wings. He slid arms behind Aziraphale once again, but this time, blue eyes shot open.

Aziraphale blinked and squirmed. “Crowley… what? What are you…”

Crowley froze, with a handful of bleeding angel in his arms, blushing furiously.

“I have to turn you over, Aziraphale. I have to get to your wingsss.” 

The damn hiss gave him away. Nervous tic.

Aziraphale’s face contorted in fear, and he lost even more color, if that was possible.

“How bad is it?” he asked, with the smallest voice possible.

Crowley laid him down on his stomach, and hesitated. He didn’t have the heart to lie, even though he wanted to.

The wings were utterly smashed.

“They’re uh….. well…” he gulped.

Aziraphale’s body went rigid at his words, or lack thereof. Tears trailed down his face, and he was wracked with a fresh fit of sobs.

Crowley was shit at this whole “comforting” thing, and he knew it. All he could do was curse, and mutter, as he tended the angel’s smashed wings, as gently as possible. “Fuck, ssorry Aziraphale. I’m sorry. That DICK. That ABSOLUTE BASTARD. Cheap fucking shot, wingsss. I guess that’s all my lot has in the arsenal. Fucking barbariansss. No brains.”

He straightened each wing, and removed a few that were hanging on by a thread. At one point, he had to crawl on the bed for a better angle. Slim fingertips brushed a broken wing joint by mistake, and Aziraphale howled. Crowley tried to numb the pain for him, but found it impossible. It was a kind of pain that existed on the ethereal plane, somewhere in another dimension.

It hurt Crowley to his very soul, but he continued, struggling to hold Aziraphale still. The excess demonic miracles should have made Crowley tired, and yet he remained energetic, even freakishly so. He moved from one task to another—miracling what he could, cleaning the rest with water. Every so often, Aziraphale would cry out, and Crowley would grab his hand.

The pattern continued for hours, until it completely wore down Crowley’s resolve.

That is how the demon found himself propped up on the bed, with a heap of angel in his lap, arms and dark wings wrapped around them both protectively. Aziraphale’s crying eased up, eventually, shifting into heavy breaths and little gasps, and then, into silence.

Crowley watched him sleep for quite some time, going over his soft face over and over again, staring at him like he’d never seen him before. Pale skin, pink lips, white-blond wisps of hair, curves for days. Sweetness and light, with a dash of bastard. Loved humanity so. Black and blue from a run-in with a demon. 

Here was something priceless. Something he had not even considered losing until today. 

_Soft_ , he thought. _I’ve gone soft_.

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, willing the possibility away.

_Demons don’t do…. this. It has to stop. Now._

And even as he thought it, a sinking feeling filled him. He knew he could not. He could not kill this …thing. It held him in place, softly, but it was absolutely unyielding.

It had been growing stronger since the beginning. The feeling was like an ivy, reaching, reaching toward the angel. Reaching for the ravishing light. 

His face scrunched up in frustration.

_I FELL, for Fuck’s sake. And he will too, if anyone finds out about this._

Crowley’s fingertips absentmindedly traced along the edge of an undamaged white primary feather. It was perfect, unblemished, and beautiful.

He leaned his head back against the cave wall, staring upward to its rocky ceiling, wishing in vain that he had never fallen.

_It would have been possible, before that. I could have loved you, angel._

He sighed, pressing a quick kiss to the top of the angel’s head.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I have ever uploaded to any fanfiction site, anywhere!! I hope it doesn't suck.


End file.
